


you are coming down with me

by simmer (lemonpie)



Series: monsters don't live under beds [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Sasha James, Beholding Avatar Sasha James, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Cannibalism, Child Neglect, F/M, M/M, Manipulation, Martin Blackwood Has ADHD, Past Child Abuse, Tim Stoker Being Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Web Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonpie/pseuds/simmer
Summary: Statement 01068742Statement of Dorothy Sims, regarding the strange circumstances surrounding her grandson’s disappearance. Statement given July 9, 1998. Recording by Sasha James, Head Archivist.(Jonathan Sims never worked for the Institute, because he went missing at aged eight. The boy who would have been taken in his place had been called, last minute, into the garage he worked at and therefore was not around to steal the book.)(He does not die, then.)[On hiatus]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Series: monsters don't live under beds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983757
Comments: 119
Kudos: 340





	1. and what good would it do to ask the gods for an end?

**Author's Note:**

> hello gang this is dedicated to eppi who will probably never read this but let me bounce my ideas off of them and put up with my annoying ass. 
> 
> CW: Spiders, canon-typical violence, manipulation (of Jon and by Jon), brainwashing (of Jon), jonah magnus (in general). 
> 
> title is from no children by the mountain goats. updates whenever i write a new chap.

_ Statement 01068742  _

_ Statement of Dorothy Sims, regarding the strange circumstances surrounding her grandson’s disappearance. Statement given July 9, 1998. Recording by Sasha James, Head Archivist.  _

_ …  _

_ I know my grandson has a tendency to wander. He's always running off, anywhere I take him. There's just one thing that'll keep him in place. Books. If he gets his hands on a good book, he's stuck in place until he finishes it. Only problem is, he's picky about it. He's so picky about his damn books, I swear. But when he finds one he likes, he reads it until he's done.  _

_ I never wanted to look after him. That makes me sound awful, doesn't it? But I didn't. I raised all of my children to adulthood. My daughter married a fine young man, and they had little Jon a few years later. Then my son-in-law died, falling off of a ladder. Stupid way to die, but there you have it. I knew my Ness would struggle with raising Jon on her own, so when she had to get a surgery to remove a cyst on her ovary, I offered to look after him. There were complications, and Jon was only four. She died, and I was left with the little bugger. I love him, of course I love him, but he's an annoying child. Always asking questions, always wanting to know why. Always wandering off. I nearly lost him six times in the first year I had him. _

_ Like I said, books are the only thing that keep him occupied for any reasonable length of time, but he's so picky with his books, and the library is too far to take a trip every time he finishes one. So I started taking him to charity shops. I'd buy every book under a pound I could find, and let him read whichever ones took his fancy, and then I'd donate them to a different charity shop. And that worked alright. He seemed happy enough and it kept him from under my feet, so I kept doing it. It was a shop on Camden Road that I got the book about the spider from. I didn't usually look at them, just at the price sticker on the front, but that one caught my attention because of how disgusting the picture on the front was.  _

_ This fat, ugly thing. I've never been afraid of spiders, but I don't like the blighters either. This one, though, this one was awful. It was gigantic, with a swollen abdomen and a tiny head. It didn't have a mouth, just eyes. Still, it was under a pound, and if it would keep Jon quiet for even half an hour, it would be worth it.  _

_ I brought all the books home, about twenty in all, and let Jon pick through them while I started on making tea. Fish and chips, we were having, I think. I only knew he was reading the book about the spider because I went to check on him and I saw him with it. I thought it was odd that he had picked that one, because it seemed like a children's book, and Jon had never liked books for younger children. Still, I didn't think anything of it, and left him to his reading, like I usually did while I cooked.  _

_ I heard him go out about five minutes later, and I presumed he was taking his books out into the garden to read. It was early summer, and warm out, and he needed the sun and fresh air, so I let him go with just a reminder to be back before tea. He didn't reply, but if he was in the middle of a book, he wouldn't, so again, I didn't think much of it.  _

_ Now, for all Jon loves his books, he's actually very very aware of the time. So when he didn't show up at five, which was our usual teatime and had been for the four years he'd been with me, I started to get annoyed. He wasn't usually late, so I went out into the garden to see if he was sitting under the apple tree. He wasn't, which, I admit, worried me slightly. Jon is a boy of routine. Still, I wasn't truly worried until I started towards the local park. Perhaps Jon had made some friends, or he had taken the book down there for a change of scenery. Something like that.  _

_ About halfway there, as I was going down St. Peter's Row, I saw Jon's jacket in the gutter. He had put it on that morning to ward off the slight chill in the air, and I didn't think he would have thrown it into the street. I looked, and there was his left shoe on the pathway to the house nearby - Number Thirteen. So I stormed up to it and rang the bell.  _

_ No response.  _

_ I rang again, and then knocked furiously. Still no response. Although I'm sure I heard… Scuttling. Like a very big insect or… Or a spider.  _

_ Obviously, I called the police. They searched the house and found it abandoned, and there was no sign of Jon anywhere in town. But still, we all looked. We put out missing posters and flyers, we called people, hoping that they'd find him, but no such luck.  _

_ He'd be twelve, now.  _

_ If the spider hasn't gotten him.  _

_..._

_ Honestly, I hate Web statements. They always make me feel kind of itchy. If this kid was actually taken by the Web and not just kidnapped regularly, then I doubt he's still alive. Still, I'm going to send Martin to do a follow up, see if he can't find anything on the house. Unfortunately, Mrs Sims died about eight months after making her statement from a heart attack. Even if she hadn't, I doubt she'd want to talk to us again. I'm surprised she made a statement at all.  _

_ What worries me most is the book. It's a Leitener, no doubt about that, but… I've never heard of a Web-based one before. I presume it disappeared along with the kid, but… If it didn't, we've got trouble on our hands. Hopefully Martin finds something. If not, we can chalk this one up to regular old creepy crime.  _

_ End recording. _


	2. hand in unlovable hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> speed noises
> 
> dont expect this fast an update from me ever again i was already working on this one 
> 
> CW for this specific chapter: Spiders, minor child neglect

On a street in the South of England, there was a house. This house was not particularly different to any other house on the street. It was old and decrepit and lonely, yes, but so too was every other house. It’s door had once been a striking shade of blue but was now pale and lifeless. Its brick walls were crumbling slightly in the corners. The windows were covered with, what at first glance, appeared to be sheer white curtains, but upon closer inspection were actually webs. Thick layers of the stuff, covering each and every window. 

Martin had always liked spiders. They were cute, and they helped the environment. At least, he liked the ones he could see, the ones with a bit of hair on them - he liked tarantulas the most, though, for sure. But this… This was different. Sasha had him doing research on a statement given almost thirty years ago, something about a spider stealing a kid. She'd promised him that if he didn't like what was going on, he could leave it. He turned the corner onto St. Peter's Row, and immediately felt the air become a little colder. His breath fogged out in front of him, and he pulled his jacket further around himself as he walked down the street. It was abandoned, but he'd been expecting that, and he tried not to let the overgrown gardens and rotting fences put him off too much. It was just an old street. You could find any street like this anywhere in England, he was sure of it! 

He reached number thirteen after about five minutes, because he was walking very slowly. He was certain he didn't want to know what was in that house. The windows were all covered in white, and Martin swallowed hard as he shuffled up the path hesitantly. There was an old, rotting child-sized sneaker in the grass, and he turned his head away from it quickly, not wanting to even consider the ramifications of that shoe.

He raised his hand and knocked three times on the old wooden door, holding his breath in a deep sort of terror he'd felt so rarely since he started working in the Archives. He was desperately hoping that no-one would open that door. He was hoping he could hop right onto the train home tomorrow without a single issue. But when had he ever been that lucky? 

A man opened the door. He was short, rail-thin, with long, dark hair that at first Martin thought was greying, but was actually shot through with webbing. His eyes were a startling shade of hazel, amber in places and almost black in others. He had high cheekbones and a thin, strong nose. His skin was a pleasant shade of brown, but looked ashen, and sunken in, like he was very ill and had been for a long time. His clothes were very obviously hand-made, and definitely not suited for the cold weather. 

"Oh my God." Martin blurted, not even thinking. The man jolted backwards, those beautiful eyes narrowing. "No- I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Are you… Are you Jon? Jon Sims?" 

"Yes." The man said, in a voice so soft and raspy that it hurt Martin's heart a little. "Who are you?" There was a spider making its way from the man's - from  _ Jon's  _ \- hair onto his face, and he brushed it away delicately, apparently unbothered by it. Martin stared at him for a very long second before spluttering out his name. 

"Martin! Martin Blackwood. I'm here to… To help you. I promise." He didn't offer his hand, because for all his degree in Parapsychology was a lie, he  _ did  _ know a fair bit about dealing with traumatized people. Jon's eyes lit up, and he shifted in place a bit. 

"You can… I can leave with you?" 

Martin's heart broke into a hundred thousand tiny pieces. "Of course you can. Come on, I'll explain everything." 

Now he did hold out his hand, and the thin, cold hand that took it was so gentle that he was worried if he squeezed too hard he might snap it. "Oh, you must be cold!" 

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it around Jon's slim shoulders, tucking it carefully around him so that it wouldn't slip off. "Thank you." Jon said, soft, quiet, and Martin offered him a smile, hoping to get one back. 

He didn't, but he didn't actually mind that much. "Are you hungry? There's a cafe just around the corner we can go to, I don't mind paying or anything like that." 

For a moment he thought Jon was going to shake his head, but he said, "Yes, actually, I am quite hungry." And Martin smiled as brightly and encouragingly as he could. God, he hadn't expected this, not in the slightest. The kid that had gone missing and presumably  _ died thirty years ago  _ was walking next to him, looking around at the forested grass and the houses with all the decorations up, looking curious and excited. It was… Strange. So very strange. 

He couldn't wait to hear what Sasha had to say about all of this. 

"It's just in here," Martin directed, gently putting his hand on Jon's shoulder and leading him into the café. It was a small, homey place, and not at all busy at this time of day. Martin often felt awkward in almost-empty places like this, but he thought that Jon would probably be overwhelmed by a lot of people. "Here, you sit, I'll go and order. What do you like?" A pause. Jon looked bewildered. "To eat," Martin clarified with a kind smile. 

"Oh." Jon said. "I'm not really sure. A sandwich, maybe?" 

Martin accepted that - what else could he  _ do?  _ Force the poor guy to read the whole menu? - and went to order. He got himself a cup of tea, and Jon a hot chocolate, because who didn't like hot chocolate, as well as two cheese toasties and some chips for them to share. He came back over to the table with a bottle of water for Jon, because God, he looked dehydrated, and sat down opposite him. 

Jon smiled at him, a tiny little smile, but it made Martin's heart soar. He wondered if he could get Jon to laugh, maybe. "Jon… How long were you in that house? Do you remember what happened to you?" 

Well. That probably wouldn't make him laugh. Way to go, Blackwood. 

"I… I've been there as long as I can remember." He admitted softly. "It's always just been me and the spiders. I think… I think I had someone, once. A woman, an older woman. I can't... Quite remember her face." He squinted as though trying to look at something very far away. "But it's always just been me. They looked after me, when I was younger." 

Martin nodded, rubbing his face anxiously. "Right. And what did you do for food?" He asked, because there's no way this guy made it thirty goddamn years without food. It just wasn't possible. 

Jon's face shuttered, and he looked out the window. "I got by." He said, very quietly. Martin respectfully dropped the topic as their drinks arrived. 

Wanting to change the topic to a lighter subject, he pushed the hot chocolate at Jon. "Here. It's hot chocolate. I thought you might like it." 

When he looked back at Martin, Jon's face was flushed a little from the warmth of the cafe, and his eyes were more amber than brown, now. It took Martin's breath away, and he firmly reminded himself that this poor man was traumatized. "For me?" He asked, pulling the cup towards himself. As he took a small sip, his eyes absolutely lit up, and Martin knew then that he'd do  _ anything  _ to keep this man safe. 

"Yeah… Yeah, Jon, it's for you." 

\-----

"What's up, buttercup?" 

Tim was sitting on her desk when she approached it with the strong cup of coffee she'd just brewed herself to deal with the shitstorm Martin had just dropped in her lap. 

Sasha sighed, sitting down in her chair. "You remember the statement I sent Martin to look into?" She asked, and Tim nodded. "Well, the kid that went missing? You know, the one that got eaten by the Web?" 

"Yeah? What about him?" 

"He's alive." 

Tim almost toppled off of the desk. "You're shitting me!" 

Throwing her hands up into the air, Sasha exclaimed, "That's what I said! Martin apparently went to the house and knocked on the door, and this  _ guy  _ answered! And now he's fucking- Taking him to a cafe to try to get some answers out of him." 

As he nodded, Tim stroked his chin thoughtfully. She knew he was only doing it to make her laugh, and hated that it worked, pushing him off of her desk. "Right, right, well, at least it's Martin." He said. Sasha nodded. If anyone dealt well with people, it was their Martin. 

"Reckon he's going to bring the guy back to the Institute?" Tim asked, after a long moment of comfortable silence. 

Sighing, Sasha rubbed her face. "I told him to, if the guy'll come with him. I mean, he's a grown ass man, tortured by the web or not, so I don't know. I think he'll try, though." 

Tim touched her shoulder. "Are you going to be alright?" He asked, and she looked up at him. She saw the sparkle of mischief in his eyes, though, as he opened his mouth again. "I know you don't like spiders- Sasha!" She hit him in the stomach, and he stumbled away, wheezing dramatically. 

"I'm going to HR!" He cried as he fake-staggered out of the door. 

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head, and opened her desk drawer to get out her tape recorder. 

Sat upon it was a fat, black, hairy spider. 

Though she was ashamed to say it, she screamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading my self indulgence! and thank you to everyone who commented already, yall are great!! much love 🥰


	3. and i hope you die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I GOT IT OUT ON TIME BAYBE
> 
> kind of a short one, next chapter will be jon's statement and the fallout of it.
> 
> CW: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A SPIDER. SKIP FROM THE PARAGRAPH BEGINNING "There was a spider" TO THE LINE BREAK

Jon was… Deeply confused. The man who had come to him, Martin, stank of Ceaseless Watcher, and Jon hated that. But Martin had spoken to him so kindly, offered him his hand, and his skin had been so warm. The spiders were never warm. 

He was still wearing Martin's jacket. 

Martin had given him hot chocolate and a nice, warm cheese and bread concoction that was very good. He'd asked a few questions, but that was alright, because he dropped them the moment Jon had looked away from him.

By the time they were both finished, Jon had even gotten used to the stink. 

As they walked through the frosted world, Jon looked around. The grass was stained with white, beautiful, and it crunched softly under his shoes when he stepped on it. The windows were covered in bright lights. Jon could remember, faintly, what Christmas was, but he couldn’t remember seeing the decorations, not like this. The spiders, of course, hadn’t celebrated. 

“Jon,” He heard Martin say beside him, and he drew his attention away from the sparkling lights to look at him curiously. “Have you… Did you get to go outside when you were there?” 

Jon considered that, carefully. “No.” He said, after a moment. “Not really.” Martin looked upset by this, so he hurried to say, “I could have, if I wanted to, but the spiders didn’t really like it when I tried, so I didn’t.” 

That didn’t make Martin look any happier. “It’s okay, Jon.” He said, anyway, as though to reassure him. That was nice. They walked together in silence for a while, until they reached the place Martin was staying. A small bed and breakfast just outside of town. "Here we are," Martin said with a smile as he produced a set of keys. 

Jon watched with undisguised curiosity as Martin unlocked the door and guided him inside. 

The room itself was nice. Not huge, but nicer than anything in the house he'd come from. The walls were papered with striped red and cream, and there was a mirror above a stone fireplace. A painting of the ocean hung above the double bed, and there was even a little kitchen area shoved in the corner. 

Martin put his bag down on the bed, while Jon wandered around, touching things lightly. The curtains, the blanket, the carpet under his feet. "You can take your shoes off." Martin offered, and Jon immediately kicked off his old, mismatched sneakers and dug his toes into the carpet. 

"It's soft." He said, with awe, and pretended not to notice the way Martin's face got all sad.

There was a spider in the corner, and he gasped, dropping to his knees and cupping his hands to let her crawl up onto them. "Hello, beautiful." He cooed, and the spider - a large, bulky thing, dark brown and visibly hairy - waved her front legs at him in greeting.

"Er- Jon?" 

"It's alright. She won't hurt me." 

Martin crouched down beside him, keeping his distance. "She's beautiful." He murmured, and Jon beamed. "Isn't she?" 

"What species is she?" 

Gently, Jon touched her back. "A Sydney Funnel-web. She's far from home, I know, but she likes to follow me around." Her mandibles twitched, but she didn't bite him. She wouldn't. "Would you like to hold her?" 

Martin hesitated. "Aren't they, like, super deadly?" He asked, which made Jon laugh. 

"She won't bite you." 

Martin hesitantly held out his hand to allow the spider to walk across to him. "Oh, wow," He said, softly. "She's absolutely beautiful." 

She was. 

Her back was shiny and dark brown, almost black, with speckles of plum across her abdomen. Her mandibles were large, and her legs were perfectly proportioned. She was Jon's favourite. 

Eventually, though, she crawled down from Martin's hands and away, and Jon watched her go, a smile on his face. "She won't bite anyone, will she?" Martin fussed. Jon shook his head.

"She knows not to. Don't worry." 

\---

"Right. Okay." 

Sasha rubbed her face, feeling utterly exhausted, and it was only ten in the morning. Standing in front of her was the man Martin had rescued from the Web house. He'd been cleaned up, she was sure, and his hair was done in intricate braids that hung down to his waist. 

"Are you- Are you alright?" She asked him, trying not to look too hard at the shoots of white through his hair - she didn't want to know what it was. He smiled at her, softly, and nodded. 

"Yes, thank you. Martin has been very kind to me." He said. His voice was so soft and quiet that she had to stop herself from immediately gathering him up in a hug. 

"That's good. Did he tell you what we do here?" She asked, gentling her voice some. She couldn't help it, he just looked so… Small. When Jon shook his head, she smiled at him kindly. "Right, well, we deal with… Weird things that happen to people. We let them talk about it, and if we can, we help them. Your grandmother made a statement here a long time ago, and that's how we knew to come and find you." She paused, but Jon gave no reaction. "Does that make sense?" 

"I think so. Would… Would you like me to make a statement?" 

She inhaled sharply. "Yes. Yes, I think that would help us to understand your situation a bit better, Jon. Why don't you come into the office and I can explain a little more?" 

Jon looked at Martin, unsure, and Martin smiled and nodded encouragingly. "I… Alright." He agreed, stepping forward. God, he was the same height as her. 

Sasha led him to the office and carefully shut the door behind her, gesturing for Jon to sit. "How this works," She started, but her breathing stuttered in her chest. There was a spider on Jon's face, settled on his cheek. It wasn't huge, but it was definitely  _ a fair size,  _ and she scooted back a little bit. "Could you-" 

"Oh. Of course." He plucked the spider up gently - it waved its legs around - and set it down, where it crawled to the door and flattened itself to fit underneath. "Sorry. They tend to get quite attached." 

"It's fine," Her voice was higher than usual, and she cleared her throat. "I'm just not a fan." 

He looked at her silently for a long moment, and she remembered what she was supposed to be doing. "Right, right. So, how this works is I record what you're saying into this," She waved the tape recorder. "And then we see if there's anything for us to look into. Is that alright with you? No-one else will hear it except for Martin and maybe Tim, the other assistant I have." 

Quietly, Jon nodded, and she pressed the record button. 

"Statement of Jonathan Sims, recorded directly from subject, June 14, 2018. Statement is regarding a childhood encounter with…" 

"Mr. Spider." Jon prompted quietly.

"With Mr. Spider. Statement begins." 

Here, she gestured for him to go ahead, and he sighed, looking at his lap, where his fingers were twisting around each other. 

"I never hated spiders," He started. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yall for reading and thank you so much for all the nice comments and kudos!!! i appreciate it so much!!! much love


	4. dance in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wee woo wee woo child neglect and abude and manipulation warning! also very brief very mild racism and canon-typical spiders. pay attention to them warnings people this is not a happy chappie!
> 
> this one is just an all around bad time for jon. also hey i updated three weeks in a row! are you guys proud of me this literally never happens. its kinda short but! i wrote it all in the chapter editor so!

Jon's grandmother didn't hate him. Not exactly. It wasn't hate, he was sure of that much, but it wasn't... Not hate, either. She didn't adore him like grandparents ought to. She fed him, and washed his clothes and everything, and he was clean and tidy most of the time. But she never talked to him, not really. It was as though he was a pet she had to take care of begrudgingly because she'd found it on the street and it had been too pathetic to leave.

So, no, Jon's grandmother didn't hate him. But she didn't love him either.

If anything, that neutrality hurt more than if she had hated him. At least then he would have known she cared.

Jon didn't have friends. He was too much of a swot, a know-it-all, a teacher's pet. The stupid kids bullied him and the smart kids competed against him and he was caught between them, halfway wanting to act stupider so they would like him more and halfway wanting to prove that he was _better._ They didn't like him, but that was alright, because their scorn was better than his grandmother's indifference. 

So when he found the book about the spider, he didn't think much of it. He didn't like baby books usually, but this one was different. He couldn't tell exactly what about it was different but he knew that it was. 

He sat himself down on the sofa, legs crossed under him, and opened the book. _Jurgen Lietner,_ read the bookplate. It was a funny name, and he spent some time rolling it over in his head until he was satisfied. Then he turned the page. 

(But of course, we all know what it said.) 

The spider was huge and bulbous and disgusting, and Jon was oddly enamoured with the image of it. It was ugly. But Jon knew people thought he was ugly too, because he was different, because his skin was the colour of Earth. The spider was facing away from him, and it was wearing a little bowler hat. The room it was in - she, Jon had decided, despite the book being titled A Guest for Mr Spider - was small, and there were two doors. Jon found himself standing up without his say-so, but he didn't mind. 

_Knock, knock._

Jon made his way out of the house without thinking about it, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. The spider has gone tense now, all of her legs splayed out, and it makes him go tense too, but not in fear. His heart is thrumming in his chest, like nerves but too happy for that. He walked, his head bowed over the book as he went through the pages. He didn't go to the park, as he did in another lifetime. Instead, he moved down an old side street. Usually, it was full of children playing with footballs or throwing things at each other, but now it was empty. Utterly deserted. 

_Mr Spider wants another guest for dinner._

Jon hadn't made a noise the entire time he had been walking, but now he squeaked. The spider on the page was looking right at him, her eight eyes shining with malice, and now he felt afraid. He wanted to drop the book, but he couldn't. His fingers were stiff and when he tried to flex them they refused to move. He felt terror the likes of which he had never felt in all of his life. Not when he had been chased by the boys who were twice his size and triple his weight, because he was quick, and clever, and he always, _always_ had the ability to run. Not even the once or twice or five times they had caught him and beaten him halfway to death, or when he had come home and his grandmother hadn't given him a second look. 

This was a new kind of terror. 

His stiff limbs moved without his say-so, and he started to weep, tears dripping down his cheeks and off of his chin. He walked up the path of number thirteen. He held the book in white-knuckled hands, and he wept. 

Mr Spider wanted another guest for dinner. Jon cried silently as the invisible strings wrapped around his body made him lift his arm and knock twice on the rotting wood of the door. He wanted to say "Please." He wanted to say "Don't." He wanted to say "Let me go." But all he could do was cry as the door creaked open. Looking into that endless darkness was the worst experience Jon had ever had. His fingers tightened their grip on the book, the cardboard pages slick with sweat. 

Eyes blinked out at him from the darkness. He could see spiderwebs criss-crossing in the hallway. The disgustingly huge abdomen was rippling with what Jon just knew was _excitement_ and he felt sick, he felt terrified, he felt- 

Hairy arms wrapped around him in a facsimile of a hug, and he felt nothing at all. 

When he woke, and he was surprised to have woken at all, for even at his age he understood the concept of death, he was resting on something hard and warm. Hair was tickling his neck and arms. The hard warm thing under him shifted, pulsed, and suddenly, with a sickening wrench, he understood exactly what it was he was laying on. 

The spider.

He was laying on the spider.

Immediately he wanted to move, wanted to get off of it and run, but he could no more move his legs than he could change his hair color to cyan. It felt impossible, a task that was too much for him. He wept again, his tears soaking into the spider's hair, and one of its many legs touched his head, and he sobbed. Only then was he able to move, but all he could do was roll over and wrap his arms as best he could around that writhing, pulsing abdomen and sob into the wiry hair. 

And he knew, then, that he would always belong to the spider. 

She laid a few weeks later, into a wet, sticky patch of web. By then he understood that he wasn't to leave. He had gotten used to the spiders, because he was a child, and children are so remarkably adaptable. There were a few on him now, settled in his hair and on his hands and watching her lay. There would be hundreds of spiderlings, soon, but he, she assured him, would always be the most special and important. 

He always preened when she said that because no-one had ever, _ever_ said he was special before. 

Well. Not the way she said it, at any rate.

They hatched two days later, and he helped them fight their way out of the egg sac with gentle, clever hands. They crawled all over him and when he started to brush them off she nipped him hard on the back of the neck with her sharp fangs and he froze, horror trickling down his spine. He would have to let them crawl on him because that was what she wanted, and what she wanted he did without question. 

It was never a bite intended to kill, which he didn't understand. He'd watched her take one other person, a girl barely six, and eat her without question to feed her spiderlings - and him. But he was her spiderling now too, wasn't he? 

Another month passed and most of the spiderlings had grown big enough to leave their nest-home and go elsewhere. They would be her eyes, her ears, her precious little darlings, but she kept him close because he was her most treasured. 

Her abdomen was small, now, too small for him to rest on, so instead he lay sheltered under her many legs, curled up by her side, and, when he was certain she wasn't paying attention to him, he wept silently. She had tolerated his crying for the first week, and then, whenever he cried, she had bitten him. Now he had learnt not to do it in her presence.

Not that there was anywhere to go that wasn't in her presence. She was huge, monsterous. She was Mother. 

Six months after the first lot of spiderlings left, two days after what would have been Jon's ninth birthday, her abdomen began to swell again. 

_Will I still be your most most important?_ He asked her, all childish innocence and wide brown eyes. _Of course,_ she told him, brushing his hair back with her hooks, and he smiled at her with all of his little teeth. He was hers, and he would always be hers, and the world outside mattered very little when he could be warm and safe here. 

She rarely fed him, rarely thought to. He picked the remains of the children she stole and ate when the hunger became to much to bear, chewed on their stiff flesh and tried so hard to make the hunger go away. She praised him for this, so he did it more until all he was chewing on was rotting bones. 

Her next batch of spiderlings came and left. Then the next, and the next. By the time he was twenty, she'd had so many he couldn't even count them all, and he, she reassured, was still his most treasured and important. He hadn't grown any more legs or eyes, which he knew she was disappointed in, but he tried very very hard to be a good spider in other ways. 

Once, she let him out to lure some people home like the book had lured him. 

When he only brought home a drunken homeless man who wasn't worth the venom it would take to liquify him, she had envenomed him instead, and he had laid in agony for days, screaming and sobbing and begging for her to take it away.

But he didn't die. Of course not. He wasn't that lucky. 

She was Mother, and he was her most special. But she had hurt him. She had hurt him so badly that he had trembled and spasmed for months afterwards. 

So when the next batch of spiderlings overran her and ate her alive, he did not stop them. Not even the pulling on his strings could make him try. This was a decision he had made all on his own. 

And then he was alone. The spiderlings left him with the husked out corpse of her, and he kicked it into a corner and covered it in webs without even realizing what he was doing. Then he sat, dribbling venom that was all his own, and he waited. 

And he waited.

And then, someone knocked on his door. 

\---

He told all of this to Sasha, who, though she tried to remain neutral, became more and more horrified. It showed in her face, because Jon stuttered and stopped speaking a few times, and she had to gently encourage him to continue. 

God, she'd known the Web was bad, but she hadn't realized just how bad it actually was. She was glad Martin wasn't here to hear this, and she would make sure neither of her assistants ever listened to this tape. This wasn't something she would subject anyone to, especially not the tiny, shivering figure opposite her. She just wanted to wrap him up in a hug and hold him and tell him everything was going to be alright. 

"I miss her." Jon said softly, looking at his lap. "I know she was a monster, but she was Mother, and I was hers." He sniffed, softly, and quickly bit his lip and wiped his eyes. 

"Jon-" She said, softly, but then he was standing up. 

"Are we finished?" He asked, desperately, and she couldn't force him to stay, not when he looked like that. Before she even finished her nod, he was gone. 

There was a long, long moment of dead air. "Recording ends." She said, because what could she add after that? The tape recorder clicked off. 

(In his office, Elias Bouchard swore very aggressively at his table. This had just made things a lot more complicated. Damn the Mother of Puppets to all hell.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wee woo wee woo 
> 
> so we sort of know what happened to jon! pay attention to them subtexts gang because things are going to be Happening. 
> 
> pls leave comments i read every single one of them and they make my heart go <3


	5. spiders eat butterflies whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got out another chapter on time. wild. hope yall enjoy this one! no specific warning tags i dont think! mostly just canon-typical elias. its kinda short but i hope you like it anyway!!!! <33333

"It was awful, Tim." She told him, her head in her hands. "I mean, like, really awful." He touched her shoulder lightly. "He- He  _ ate  _ people because it wanted him to! It made him feel like it was the only one that would ever think he was special! He was- He was systematically groomed into being the perfect avatar for that thing and somehow he managed to stay-  _ like that. _ " 

Tim patted her shoulder gently. “I know.” He said, even though he really, really didn’t. “But he’s out of there now, right? We can look after him. I mean- he’s got Martin, so, he’s pretty much set.” He was trying to make her laugh, she knew, but she was still caught up in the way Jon’s eyes had gone dim and dull when he talked about ‘ _ Mother. _ ’ It was made worse somehow by him saying that he  _ still loved her _ even though she had manipulated him for so long. 

“It’s like, most people we talk to, it’s a one and done thing, you know? But this- God, this was years of him being fucking  _ tortured,  _ Tim. That’s what it was. It was torture.” He grimaced, and she looked away. “I know we can’t take all of that away from him. I would if I could, but we can’t. But we can look after him now.” She said, sitting back in her chair.

“Right.” Tim agreed, but he sounded uncertain. He looked at her, hesitant, and she reached for his hand immediately to reassure, to touch, to ensure he knew that she was there and that she would  _ protect _ him. “Right.” He said again, more firmly this time. “Where is Jon, anyway? Think he’s crawling all over Martin right about now?” 

Now Sasha laughed, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he was. Come on, let’s go and see.” And so they went. 

\---

Elias Bouchard had not been having a good day. 

First, his computer decided to go on the fritz, and Beholding was being stubborn with the knowledge of how to fix it, unhappy with a spider sitting in their midst, but there was nothing Elias could do about that lest he upset his Archivist. Then, he spilled coffee on his favourite tie to the point that it was unsalvageable, and he had no choice but to throw it away. 

But worst of all was when he came back from a business meeting to see the spider that had crawled into his Institute sat in  _ his chair  _ behind  _ his desk, _ knitting something made out of silk and yarn. “Hello, Jonah.” Said the spider, smiling with all of his teeth. 

“Jon.” He returned, stiffly, and sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs he reserved for guests. “Dare I ask why you’re here?” 

Jon flashed those razor canines at him in another pleased grin. “I’m here because I want you to stop what it is you’re trying to do.” Elias tensed, but Jon, either oblivious or uncaring (he wasn’t so stupid as to think anything belonging to the Web was oblivious), continued to weave with clever fingers. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elias said, trying not to show how discomforting that movement really was. This was a human, a human man, and he’d had dealings with the Web’s creatures before - Annabelle Cane was a particular favourite - but none of them had acted quite so spider-like as Jon was acting, his legs curled up onto the chair, long, spindly limbs tucked away. Jon laughed. Another flash of those teeth. 

“Don’t lie to me, Jonah.” Jon said, in a manner that was almost friendly. “Your lot knows everything, don’t you?” Elias grit his teeth. He couldn’t get into Jon’s head. 

_ He cares about the Archives team. They rescued him.  _ Beholding deposited in his brain, and, knowing now what he was doing, Elias straightened. “I can’t do anything to you and you know that.” He said, and now Jon was wary, his weaving slowing down. “But I can do something to  _ them. _ The Archivist is mine, you know. I can do what I like to her.” This was not strictly true, but as far as he could recall the Web didn’t deal in lies. “And to your new little friends, too.” 

“But you won’t.” Jon tilted his head. “Because you need her to at least tolerate you. Otherwise she’ll kill you, and everything you’ve been working so hard for will go up in smoke.” 

God, he hated spiders. They could see where every pull of a string, every tug of a limb, would lead. He could only know what could be known now and what had already happened. He couldn’t see the future, because the Beholding dealt in the now. The Web did not. The Web was already five steps ahead of the now. He met those unwavering hazel eyes and felt an odd pang of… Distress? Loneliness? He wasn’t sure, but he was absolutely certain all of a sudden that hazel wasn’t the colour they ought to be. 

They were at a stalemate, he and the spider. One unwilling to back down, the other unable to carry out his threat.  Through gritted teeth, Elias got out, “What do you want?” And when Jon only smiled at him, he felt himself start to lose his temper. “Well?”

As though put upon, Jon sighed, setting his weaving down on the desk. “I want you to stop. Stop trying to create the ritual.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

A flash of teeth made the answer to that very clear. 

“Give me time to think about it.” He said - ordered. The spider slunk from his chair, leaving behind the weaving, and stepped past him. Before he left, though, he turned, and Elias thought he was utterly, absolutely prepared for anything Jon was about to say. He had answers for everything. 

“You know,” Jon mused, looking at him with dark eyes. “You would have made an excellent spider.”

That threw Elias. He had been expecting a jab, or just a look, or anything else. He knew it wasn’t intended to be a compliment and he didn’t take it for one. It made everything inside of him shiver with revulsion. 

He.  _ Hated.  _ Spiders. 

\---

“Jon!” Martin cried, relieved to see him. After his talk with Sasha, Jon had murmured that he would like some alone time, and he’d looked so upset with even trying to ask for something that Martin had agreed immediately, hating that look and wanting to make it go away. 

He’d disappeared, then, and Martin had no idea where he’d run off to, but he was so happy to see him he completely forgot that he hadn’t actually touched Jon besides taking his hand once. He rushed in and hugged him, almost lifting him up off his feet. “I was so worried about you.” He muttered fiercely into Jon’s hair. 

He could have cried when those stick-thin arms carefully wrapped around him in return. He had to fight not to squeeze too hard, because he got the feeling this was the first hug Jon had gotten in a very, very long time. Eventually, though, he pulled away. “Are you alright?” He asked softly. Jon nodded, looking up at him with slightly damp eyes. 

“Was that a hug?” He asked, and Martin’s heart broke all over again. “It was nice.” 

All he could do was nod, overwhelmed with emotion. The fact that Jon had to  _ ask.  _ That he didn’t even know what a hug was. It hurt. 

“I’d like to do it again.” Jon said, shyly, softly, and Martin wasted no time in gathering Jon up into his arms. 

And under the teeth of the wolf, the spider smiled and bared all of his teeth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i ADORE all of your comments! i dont reply to all of them but please know i do read every single one and i appreciate them so so much!!!


	6. get a load of this monster, he doesn't know how to communicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM BAM BAM got it out on time just about! fuck yea
> 
> tws for this one  
> graphic spider description (sorta)  
> minor burn injury (not jude perry related)  
> manipulation (by jon)

So Martin had a person who was maybe a psychopath but also most probably just very very traumatized living in his house with him. 

Okay, it wasn’t really his fault. It was just - Jon had looked up at him with those big hazel eyes and said very softly that he didn’t like it here at  _ all, _ everything was always watching him, and Martin had gone all soft and really he hadn’t been able to say no, even when he probably should have. So, there was that.

Jon was sitting on the old couch that was piled high with cushions and blankets. He had one of the blankets wrapped around his shoulder, a grey and white one he's had for eons now, and there was a spider sitting on his left leg. It was just a common house spider, Martin knew that. He had seen plenty of them in his time, and he'd always found them a bit creepy, for all he liked spiders. They’ve always been a bit too spindly for his tastes. 

But Jon seemed happy, so Martin didn’t want to disturb him. Even if seeing him crawling with spiders made Martin’s skin itch. 

So instead he made tea. He didn’t even know if Jon liked tea, but he made it anyway. It calmed his nerves, the familiar actions, boiling the kettle, setting up the mugs, the teabags, the sugar and milk. 

He took the mugs out into the living room, one in each hand, and almost dropped them both. The spider, the medium-sized house spider that had been sitting on his leg was gone, now replaced by a truly massive spider. It was a light tan colour, with sprawling legs, hair covering it’s abdomen that looked almost velvet. “Jon,” Martin said warily. “Is that- Do you have a Goliath Birdeater Tarantula on my couch right now?” 

He shifted as though to shield the spider from Martin. "Her name's Alice." He defended, as if  _ that  _ made any difference. But he looked so wary, like he thought Martin was going to try and kill the thing. "She's not dangerous!" 

Martin set the mugs of tea on the table, watching the spider warily. It - she, if Jon knew what he was talking about - had sensed Jon's upset and raised her front legs. 

"I thought you liked spiders." Jon said, his tone accusing, and Martin felt his stomach drop.

"I do! Just- Not massive ones!" 

Jon narrowed his eyes, petting the spider's velvety abdomen. "Okay." He said, eventually, and somehow sent the spider away. It wriggled underneath his couch and disappeared, and Martin chose not to think about the consequences of that. Instead, he offered Jon the tea. 

"What's this?" He asked, looking at the mug curiously as he took it, and Martin forgot all about the giant spider under the couch to nurse his aching heart instead. 

"It's tea." 

Jon took a trusting sip of it, and then his eyes lit up like they had when he first tried hot chocolate, which mended Martin's heart easier than anything else. "Do you- Do you like it?" 

"It's nice." He sounded… Bewildered. Martin sat down beside him, forgetting all about the spiders to gently take Jon's hand. "Martin?" 

Martin swallowed. "Jon, things are nice here. You're allowed to enjoy things." He said, voice hoarse. "It's- You're not in that house anymore. I promise, things are different here."

With his big hazel eyes wet, he looked down at their hands, and then back up at Martin, who smiled sadly and stroked his thumb over Jon's knuckles. 

"Oh." Jon said, choked, and then started crying. Martin floundered for all of a second, and then pulled Jon into a hug, rubbing at his back lightly. "It's alright." He whispered against Jon's web-laced hair. "It's okay, Jon. You're safe now." 

Jon sobbed quietly into his chest, and he remembered the small part of the statement he had overheard, where he'd said that the spider had bitten him if it caught him crying, and he held Jon a little tighter, feeling utterly useless. 

He couldn't see the clock from where he was, so he didn't know how long they sat there, but at some point he heard Jon's breathing change and realized he must have fallen asleep. 

While his heart shattered and melted in equal measures, he tried to figure out a way to untangle Jon from him without waking him up. The poor guy had his arms wrapped around Martin's waist, and he wasn't letting go, so Martin had to gently coax him into laying down by awkwardly stooping until Jon got the message and rolled over. 

Carefully, he tucked the blankets over Jon, stroking his hair out of his face in a moment of indulgence. He really was beautiful. 

And  _ traumatized,  _ he told himself firmly as he went to rinse out the now-cold cups of tea. The guy had just spent - he checked the clock - almost an hour crying because Martin had told him that things were  _ nice.  _ Nice. That was all. And he'd cried for an hour. 

Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair and decided to get some sleep himself. He couldn't stop himself from checking in on Jon, though. There were about six Orb-Weavers in his hair, and that Funnel-web from the hotel was sat on his shoulder, apparently also sleeping. 

And, while the presence of the spiders deterring him was a good thing, he couldn't help but feel a little bit of sorrow that he couldn't even kiss Jon's forehead goodnight. 

There would be other nights. Plenty of them.

\---

_ When Martin woke up, it was cold. He was laying flat on his back on what felt like sand, which was odd, because he was sure he'd fallen asleep in his bed. He sat up, rubbing grit from his eyes, and blinked around. Everything was very… Pale. The sand was white-gold under his hands, and in front of him, the ocean stretched, pale and unending. He was surrounded by fog, and it was cold.  _

_ He sniffed a bit, glancing around, and then stood, brushing himself off and starting in a random direction down the beach. It didn't occur to him to start walking away from the ocean. Why would it? He walked down the beach, skipping stones across the water. It was cool, now, pleasantly so. He'd always rather liked being alone.  _

_ The water crashed against the shore, forming a pleasant white noise that blocked out his thoughts. He could stay here, he thought idly to himself, and he'd be just fine.  _

_ But- No, that wasn't right. He had people who would miss him! Yes, he… He couldn't remember their names or their faces, but he was certain they cared.  _

_ T… Tom?  _

_ Tim! Tim, that was it. _

_ After some amount of time, he wasn't sure how much, he came across a building. A cabin, set away from the water's edge. It looked cosy, inviting, and he knocked on the wooden front door hopefully. No-one answered, and a shock of fear went through him. Was he the last person alive? Surely there should have been someone walking the beach too? Surely? _

_ He knocked harder. Hammered. "Hello?" He cried, pounding on the door with his fists. "Hello?! Please! Anyone?"  _

_ Trying the handle. yielded no result. It was locked. Terror crawled up his spine, icy. "Oh, god." What if he was the last person on earth? What if he was going to die here, all alone? He sat down with his back to the door, pulled his knees up to his chest, and watched the ocean.  _

_ And then someone  _ shook his shoulder and he was gasping himself awake. 

The figure stood by his bed was lanky and thin, and it took him a long, horrified moment to realize it was Jon. "You were shouting. I think you were having a nightmare." Jon whispered, and Martin nodded, rubbing his eyes. 

Jon turned, but Martin cried, "Wait!" And then flushed, hoping the dark would conceal his embarrassment. "I-... I don't want to be alone." 

"Oh." 

Martin waited for a few seconds, and then opened his mouth to dismiss it, but he felt the bed beside his foot dip. Gingerly, almost cat-like, Jon crawled his way over to Martin and curled himself up beside him, back just barely touching his blanket-covered side.

"Thank you." Martin whispered into the dark. He got no response, but that was alright. He wasn't expecting one anyway. 

But that wasn't enough to remind him he wasn't alone, that he wasn't going to die alone on an endless stretch of beach, so he rolled over and carefully put his arm around Jon's waist. 

_ Traumatized.  _ He told himself firmly.  _ And way out of your league even if he wasn't.  _

Jon stiffened under his touch, and then let out a huge sigh and relaxed, even shifting back into him just a little (or maybe that was wishful thinking.) 

Either way, Martin didn't have any more nightmares that night. 

\---

When Martin woke up, for real this time, his nose was buried in Jon's dark hair and his arm was wrapped around Jon's slim waist. One of Jon's skinny hands was wrapped around his wrist keeping him in place, and he could hear faint snoring. 

It was so sweet he felt his heart grow three sizes at least. 

And then he felt something crawl on his back and he  _ screamed,  _ flinging himself out of bed. It was only a spider, one that fell to the ground with a thump and scurried away, but Martin still checked over both his skin and the bed for worms.

Jon had startled badly and was crouched on top of the wardrobe - wait, the wardrobe? 

Martin hadn't seen him get up there, but if he was comfortable, Martin didn't mind. "Sorry for scaring you, Jon." He called gently as he searched the bed for worms. "I had some bad experiences with worms recently. Do you think you could ask your spider friends to only crawl on me when I'm awake and expecting it?" 

There was a long pause, and then, "Yes." 

"Thank you. Would you like some breakfast? I have, erm… Pancake mix, bacon, eggs, sausages. The works, really. You want something?" 

Another long pause. "Please." And Jon scrambled down from the wardrobe to join him. Martin tempered his reaction, and only smiled and led him out into the living room.

When Jon was settled in his little blanket nest, Martin got started on breakfast, popping in four slices of toast and heating up the frying pan. It didn't matter if Jon didn't eat it. Martin just wanted him to have the option - poor guy looked so malnourished it made  _ Martin  _ hungry just to look at him. 

He whistled cheerfully as he cooked, half-wishing Tim were here to lighten the mood. Then he felt bad because he knew Tim was struggling after learning Danny was really dead. Then he felt bad for thinking  _ that  _ and decided to think about eggs. 

Without knowing how Jon liked them (and doubting Jon knew the answer either) he decided to just do them overeasy, how he liked them. If Jon didn't, they could figure out what he did like. An egg or two going to waste wouldn't hurt. He could always feed them to the stray outside his local supermarket. She always appreciated that. 

The smell of cooking bacon was always gloriously wonderful in the mornings, and Martin felt lighter. He couldn't even remember much of his dream, and it didn't matter anyway. He had someone else to cook for, someone that didn't hate or resent him, and it was wonderful. 

A crash from the living room made him turn, and his elbow hit the handle of the pan, flicking it up and splattering him with boiling grease and fat, and he howled in pain, forgetting all about Jon, and the crash, and anything except the sizzling pain against his neck and face and arms. 

He hurried to the sink to wash it off, breathing heavily. The grease would stain the tile, but he didn't care about that right now. Thankfully he'd been wearing his glasses so nothing went into his eye. 

When he turned, he saw Jon standing in the doorway clutching something that was most definitely broken in both hands. 

"I'm sorry, Martin. It was an accident." 

It was a photo frame. Martin recognised it on sight but he still let Jon turn it around. The photograph inside was stained and torn beyond repair, the glass and ceramic of the frame shattered entirely. 

It was the only photograph Martin had of his father, and he felt a bone deep rage start to climb inside of him. 

He took in a deep breath and opened his mouth to start shouting, angry and in pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love all of your comments so much!!!! thank you!!!!!!


	7. now i'm shaking, drinking all this coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw:  
> manipulation (of jon, by the web)  
> mild talk of abuse (jon's)

Jon struggled to catch his breath, his fingers curled around the shattered frame of the picture he had been looking at. It really had been an accident. 

Well. It had  _ mostly  _ been an accident. He’d been curious about the picture of the man, and so he’d gone to look at it. He hadn’t meant to knock it off, not really, but he’d felt the strings on him tighten and he knew he was going to do  _ something  _ to the picture, like it or not. The Mother wanted to test Martin, so test Martin they would. 

Without his say so, his arms had twitched and flexed, and he shattered the picture frame, knocking it to the ground. It shattered, and then his arms were his own again. He heard a cry of pain from the kitchen, but he was looking at the picture frame, regret and satisfaction warring inside of him.    


And now he was looking at Martin’s face, contorted with rage and pain, and he felt some emotion rise inside of him. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he didn’t like it.  _ Yes,  _ said that feeling,  _ yell at me. Shout. Hit me. Prove to me that you’re lying.  _

As he watched, Martin saw his face, and shut his mouth with a click, and then sighed. “It’s alright, Jon. It was an accident. Here, I don’t want you to cut yourself.” 

That strange feeling blossomed into confusion. Why wasn’t Martin shouting at him? Why wasn’t he hitting, or biting, or making Jon feel bad? When Martin held his hands out for the frame, Jon let him take it, unsure what else to do. “It’s okay, Jon.” Martin repeated, and again there was a wave of confusion. But under that, there was… Fear. 

Fear that Martin would wait until later to hurt him. That he would wait until Jon trusted him, and then he would strike out. That was what Mother had done. It stood to reason that Martin was the same. So Jon resolved that he wouldn’t trust Martin. Not ever. That way, if that’s what he was waiting for, he’d never get it. 

Still, he thought about falling asleep next to Martin, being held by someone warm and alive and  _ human.  _ He thought about hot chocolate and tea, and how soft Martin’s eyes were. How, even though he wanted to shout, he hadn’t. How he’d complimented the funnel-web that had a habit of following Jon around. He’d called her beautiful. Martin  _ liked  _ spiders. Not the way Jon liked spiders, but he liked them. 

Maybe he just liked things that were dangerous. 

“-On? Jon, can you hear me?” 

Oh. He hadn’t realized Martin was talking to him. He blinked out of his thoughts. “Yes. Sorry.” He said softly, and Martin smiled at him, though Jon couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. “Could I-” He hesitated, and then took the plunge. “Could I have another hug?” 

For some reason that made Martin look sad, but before he could take it back, he was being gathered into big, strong arms. It wasn’t like being held by Mother. That had been too tight, almost painful, like she had wanted to pull him inside of her and keep him there forever. This was firm, just firm enough to be comforting, and Martin was warm in a way Mother had never been. 

“It’s okay, Jon.” Martin repeated, and Jon took a shaky breath. It was okay. Even if Martin did decide to hurt him later, he wasn’t hurting him now, and that was what mattered. 

\---

God, but Martin felt awful. He’d almost screamed at the poor guy for an accident. For breaking a picture Martin didn’t even  _ like.  _ Even if he was angry, what right did that give him to shout?

But he hadn’t. He’d controlled himself just fine, and now he had Jon cradled in his arms. Jon wasn’t crying but Martin got the feeling that he would be if he had the energy, which made his heart hurt. God, Jon had broken his heart four times over in less than a week. 

“Jon?” He prompted, after a while. “I like hugging you, but I’ve got to finish our breakfast, alright?” He felt bad, but the toast was about to pop, and he didn’t want it to freak Jon out. “Why don’t you go sit down, and I’ll bring everything in once it’s all done.” 

Slowly, Jon pulled back, nodding, and Martin breathed out a subtle sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to force Jon away from him. He would never want to do that. 

First things first, he had to clean up the mess the grease had made on the floor. So he did that, keeping an ear out for anything else breaking in the living room. Nothing did, thankfully, so he could start another batch of bacon in peace. It didn’t take him long to have a few toasted bacon and egg sandwiches, two for each of them, and he brought them out into the living room, only for his heart to melt. 

Jon was curled up in the little blanket nest he’d made last night, his eyes half closed, twirling a strand of hair around his fingers. He looked utterly adorable and Martin looked away, swallowing, before he could find it in himself to disturb Jon’s peace. “Hey, Jon? I made some sandwiches.”

When he looked up, Martin felt himself melt all over again. Jon looked so grateful it hurt, and when Martin handed him the plate, the whispered  _ thank you _ he got was almost enough to make Martin start crying. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Jon.” He said instead, trying to keep his voice light as he sat down on the other end of the couch (after ensuring he wouldn’t sit on any spiders, of course). 

He really tried his best not to watch Jon eat, but he couldn’t help looking out of the corner of his eye at the way Jon quietly deconstructed the sandwich, making him grateful he hadn’t added any sauce. It was strange, but eating each part of the sandwich individually seemed to make Jon happy, so Martin wasn’t going to judge. 

“Martin?” Jon asked, after a while of silence, and Martin looked up. Jon had put his plate on the table, where a few spiders were crawling around the leftovers, and was looking at the floor. “If you knew I was there… In the house, I mean. If you knew I was there, why didn’t you come sooner?” 

“Oh, Jon. We didn’t actually know you were still alive.” Martin said, guilty. “If we had known, of course we would have come to get you sooner. We thought the book had killed you, that’s why we didn’t come.” 

Jon looked at the floor with furrowed brows, clearly trying to process that. “I’m sorry we didn’t know, Jon. I’m really sorry.” Martin said quietly, after a moment. Jon looked up at him, eyes brimming. “I wish we had known. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. You didn’t deserve any of it.” 

Even if he didn’t know the full story, of course he knew that Jon didn’t deserve it. The look on his face - confused, anxious, a little bit sceptical - only confirmed that. “I… I didn’t?” He asked, obviously insecure, and Martin felt his resolve strengthen. He was going to make sure Jon knew that life could be good. That life  _ was  _ good. He’d do everything in his power to make it so. 

“No, Jon. You didn’t. You were a little kid, and you didn’t deserve any of it.” Martin said, keeping his voice firm, to make sure Jon really knew it. He’d say it as many times as it took. 

No-one deserved to be abused. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love all of you!! everyone who commented and kudosed and read this self indulgent shit! thank you!!
> 
> i do read every comment, i swear, even if i dont reply! <3

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a setup for what is to come. hope you enjoyed! leave a lil kudos if you want, or comment if youre feeling saucy. much love!


End file.
